their eyes, like paintings stare
by reallyhatebananas
Summary: Tom is not alone in this drab orphanage life. He's haunted, by dolls. And slowly but surely, feeling their stare, he knows that he's going insane. ::For Fanfiction Idol Competition, and a bit disturbing to be frank:: Featuring a young Tom Riddle


**A/N:** Wow. Um, _wow_. It's been forever. Anyway, though, ninth grade isn't hard but waking up at sixth every morning IS. I'm kind of dead to the world and completely uninspired to write. Doing this – which I had to in order to stay in the Idol Competition – was really, _really_ hard. Speaking of which (or, um, not) this is also my entry for the Dark Fic challenge.

**Disclaimer:** Ah, how I've missed doing these! Anyway, Jo's mind is not a twisted place. Mine _is_. Trust me, HP would be extremely disturbing if 'twere owned by moi.

()()()

When awareness seeps into Tom and jerks him upright, blanket falling from the mattress to spread across the dusty floor, first thing he does is to close his eyes.

The dolls are there, watching him.

They're _always_ there – night after night, day after day. During mealtimes, he's busy with the rumbles of his gut and the way bread and a half-cup of milk will leave him gasping with hunger, choking up spittle and wincing at the sear in his throat. He blinks his eyes – _once, __twice_ – because he's only hungry and seeing things, right?

The dolls can't really be there, watching him.

A tear runs down his cheek and Freddy Heckles laughs and jeers. Tom swallows once and rubs his toes down the bench leg, bracing himself against the ground with one foot atop the other.

_Make it go away. Please please please make it go away._

But the Matron is there, with her iron eyes and leather belt, and Tom doesn't dare speak aloud because he cannot be weak. He will suffer from the fear in silence, as he always has.

_Make them go away._

The children talk and windows creak and Tom Riddle chokes down his supper as he feels eyes boring straight into his back.

()()()

They're everywhere and he knows it.

Across his room, when night terrors keep him up, he sees their shadows on the walls and hears silence where their breathing should be. During lessons, he's chastised for daydreaming when his eyelids droop and their cruel china faces dance in front of his eyes. They follow him to the loo – stacked in corners, their empty smiles wide and mocking – and down stairways and hallways and –

He's ten years old and already wishing for death. A part of him knows, though, that the dolls will be there as well and he'll be trapped with them in this never-ending hell.

()()()

He's not afraid. Not afraid not afraid not afraidnotafraid –

"Go away. Just go _away_." He doesn't say please, because here in the orphanage he's learnt that _please_ in a sign of weakness and the weak have no place in this world.

He's not endured ten years of hell for _nothing_ – hasn't had this life of misery and pain only to die as he lived, alone. He _will_ survive and he will _be_ something for it. Tom Riddle will leave more than a dusty footprint in the orphanage of London when everything finally ends.

"I'll do it. D'you hear me?" The doll stares back at him, eyes wide and unblinking and glassy, glassy brown. Tom presses one hand to the wall behind him and pretends to ignore any shivers of fear. "I'm more than them." _Filthy, __pathetic __children_. "I'll get out of here and then you'll have nobody to bother – nobody to scare." He winces as the truth comes out unbidden, checking to see that his bedroom door is tightly closed. Fear is weakness and weakness is death.

"I'm _sorry_, all right?" he bursts out, something like guilt twisting deep in his gut. Then he feels pain stab through the bruise on his wrist and he shivers in the drafts from the window. He remembers that he has nobody who cares about him and nobody for whom _he_ can care. He tells himself that emotions like guilt and pity and compassion are nothing more than a death wish, signed and stamped.

Tom slips onto the floor and wonders why, exactly, he's haunted by them day and night.

()()()

A cheap grey playground, allotted to the orphanage by government and law and all the things that don't do a bit to help the lives over which they govern. Tom perches on a rotting log and coils an arm moodily around its branch, leaning back so that his feet don't touch the ground. Barely inches away a doll sits, its face ugly and blank and dull.

"There's a castle somewhere," Tom whispers, feeling stirrings of longing and hope and want somewhere deep inside. "There's somewhere special that I'm meant to be. And I'm gonna find it, I swear." He brushes dark hair away from his eyes and fingers a scar on his wrist. He'll _do_ it – escape the animals who call themselves human, and find a place where he can live his days in peace. Happiness.

The concept is magical and painful all at once, but the doll sitting beside him does nothing but stare.

()()()

He's outside, after lessons, when some older boys corner him and Tom feels his anger rise.

"C'mon, Tommy. Gimme a kiss."

Fury. Rage. And something more – hate. Tom tries desperately to reign in his anger but he _can__'__t_– his will has been cracked by the days of pain and hurt and fear and it's the power, now, that controls him. He clenches his fists.

"Get out. Now."

The boys are laughing, intoxicated by the presence of their mates – jumping at the chance to cause the unreadable Riddle boy's mask to peel and break. Tom feels that first wave of _something _wash over him, leaving tingling warmth. A window explodes into shards of jagged glass.

"Leave."

The world flashes from black to white and back. His throat feels swollen and hot and tears gather at the corners of his eyes. He covers his face with his hands as fury and hatred explode from his body in a great wave, the rushing sound dotted with screams and yells and something that he thinks might be the crunch of bodies – _limp, __lifeless __bodies_ – falling to the floor.

He loses his footing in the aftershock, slipping and landing hard on his rump. He opens his eyes, _hoping_ with all his might that the older boys escaped. That the vile bullies didn't get what they deserved.

Tom Riddle sits in a room filled with dolls, their faces white and limbs askew. He rakes nails down his cheeks and wails with something that's not fear or anger but some strange mix of the two.

"Please," he whimpers. "Please, just leave me alone…"

The dolls sit still, eyes wide as they stare.

()()()

Er. Yeah. If you need an explanation (trust me, most of my family members did) then here it is:

So the 'dolls' are, well, a euphemism for dead bodies. Tom's magic gets out of control and kills people. Then he sees their bodies – whether they're physically there or just ghost-like things born of guilt I'm not sure – and is horrified. 'Tis why at one point he apologizes. He didn't mean it, after all!

ANYWAY. This is me crossing my fingers that I get into the next round of Fanfiction Idol over at HPFC. If you liked this, do not, and I repeat, DO NOT VOTE FOR IT in the poll on You're Amyzing's profile. Because. Voting for me means you want me out of the competition, and you don't want that, right? -grins hopefully-

Reviews are love.


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